


The Gray Queen

by purplevanity



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:40:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplevanity/pseuds/purplevanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They come for her on the fourth day.</p><p>(Or, Cersei's trial.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gray Queen

They come for her on the fourth day.

(Or, perhaps, she thinks it's the fourth day; she's always been better at numbers than Jaime [but not Tyrion, no, never Tyrion] but the meals are seldom and the cells are dark, and eventually her lines blur together as they always do. She barely remembers coming here, it had been blurry, too - the doors slamming open and dragons and suddenly there is a boy with Elia Martell's smile and Rhaegar Targaryen's face and suddenly he is yelling for the dungeons...)

The jailers are better than the septas the damned sparrow king used to send her - they, at least, seemed to have tongues, and brains to communicate with. They bring her news - Stannis Baratheon and his priestess smashed to bits by the Others (or so they say one day, the next it is Stannis Baratheon and his priestess smashing the Others to bits; but she has never been sure of anything anyway) - of Walder Frey dying a gruesome death (that, at least, is something she can laugh at) -of Myrcella, far away in Dorne, far away and scarred and beautiful - 

"The queen," she asks them, and it stings, because she is the queen, has always been the queen; the title has always been a part of her but at the same time it was never hers, not really. She'd always known she was going to give it up, too. "The queen," she repeats, and her voice is hoarse and her eyes sting. "What is she like?" She would like to know, yes, there is some comfort in the fact that this distant beautiful girl was not the Tyrell brat (and it is discomforting as well, all that wasted effort, all that shame for Margaery and her twice-damned family - ).

Today it is the slight wisp of a man, the one that is all limbs and sandy hair and freckles. He grins, and he is missing a tooth. "Ah, the Targaryen queen." 

It is disgusting.

"They were wed the other day, you see," the jailer continues, swirling the keyring around his fingers. "Such a grand ceremony. Your ladyship's brother was there; he looked quite pleased, if I do say so myself."

It is disgusting to know that in the end he had won and she had lost - (but perhaps he was winning all along? She does not know her brother, does not love him - )

But it is not Tyrion she is asking about. "I asked you about the queen, not of my brother," she spits, and the jailer looks amused. Had I still been Queen you would not live long enough to smile like that again.

"Well, the King is quite taken with her," the jailer says, leaning against the opposite wall. "I mean I don't blame him, his little wife is a very pretty thing."

"Lovely," another one had put in. "And a kind soul, too."

So that was it, then. In the end her poor, paranoid husband had the right of it, and Daenerys Targaryen was going to be the death of her. _I could not have known. I thought it would be the Stark girl. I thought it would be the Tyrell brat. I thought Daenerys Targaryen would be the death of herself._

+

They come for her on the fourth day, and she is ready. The queen is not anyone she has shamed, not anybody she has met. She can smile and bat her eyelids and beg for mercy out of this, and if the queen was as kind of merciful as she had heard, she would get to keep her head.

It was a strange feeling, this - how could she had sunken so far so quickly, and for nothing? She's had enough of kings and their promises, enough of queens and their beauty - 

But she was a lioness of Casterly Rock, and she had her own bravery, too. _It is just a trial. I have done this before._

They bring her before the King and his wife in shackles, and she's aware she is a sorry sight - her head down, her hair cropped short, her skin bruised and cracked, her clothing disgustingly common. She is aware of the eyes on her, of the laughs hanging over the air - briefly, vaguely, she wonders where Jaime is.

"Cersei Lannister of Casterly Rock," the King's voice says, and it is so like his father's that she has to bite her lip to keep from crying out. "Are you aware of your treason against the Crown and the Seven?"

"No, Your Grace, for as long as I can remember I wore the crown."

She can feel him jerk on the Throne. "How dare you-"

And that's when she hears it. It is just one word, one soft, melodic, syllable, and then her fingers are twitching and her legs feel as if they are going to give way.

The voice is not Daenerys Targaryen's, as she has never heard Daenerys Targaryen speak.

"Stop."

She looks up.

And it is Sansa Stark staring down at her, poor little Sansa Stark who'd been such a frightened little thing. But she is much changed, now - this dove had hair like fire and eyes like steel, and even in her husband's red and black she is so heartbreakingly, breathtakingly beautiful that Cersei feels her heart in her throat. She cannot, will not, reconcile the images; this cannot be Sansa, who'd been so poor and lovely and broken, it must be someone else, perhaps - 

_Damn you, Maggy. Damn you to all the Seven hells and back._

And before she knows it, there are tears in her eyes, but Sansa Stark's face is stone.

+

The trial ends faster than he would have liked; Cersei Lannister was quite a big name in King's Landing from what he'd gathered, and he'd wanted to make the spectacle out of it. But Tyrion had chuckled and told him that that was good enough for him. "Don't you love your sister?" he'd asked, and Tyrion had looked at him incredulously. "I suppose in a way she will always be the slip of a girl who tugged at by hair and poked my nose," he'd said, his tone just a tad remorseful. "But I suppose you know the rest."

He didn't. His lady wife did.

He returns to the throne room, later, to find her still sitting on hers. The shadows in the room and the black of her gown give her a haunted look, and it is with great grace and caution that she brings her head up to look at him. The corners of her mouth turn up, and she nods in greeting.

He seats himself next to her, and they sit in silence together for a while. They are young, too young, for this, he thinks. He looks over at her, at the beautiful lady-heiress-princess-girl-wolf he'd come to love, and slowly entwines his fingers in hers. Only then does she speak.

"Ser Jaime cried, you know."

He doesn't say anything, but he knows of Jaime Lannister and his legendary love for his sister, of his even more legendary slaying of the Mad King...

"It was an awful sentence," she continues, looking straight ahead. "But I think it was fitting."

"Will he do it?" he asks.

She nods. "He will. I know he will." 

She leans her head on his shoulder, and he shifts to accommodate her. "For Winterfell," she says, and her eyes turn to jewels as she smiles up at him, and he can do nothing but smile back. 

They are young, too young, for this, but it is only the fourth day and they have all the time they need.


End file.
